Chapter Text
Act I: Sic Parvis Magna
Greatness From Small Beginnings
The deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal,
But know that the sun always rises.
- Chant of Light, unknown verse
Minrathous, Tevinter Imperium, 9:48 Dragon
It was genuinely surprising how different the weather was in Minrathous compared to Ventus. Or Carastes, Neromenian, Vyrantium... Any other city along the coast. It never rained half this much in Ventus. Rori had been here a week, and even when it let up, the city was covered in a humid fog so that nothing had a chance to dry properly. Not that week-long rainstorms were unheard of, but there was something about this that just felt wrong. It lent credence to the theory that all the magic suffusing the city affected the weather. In Rori's opinion, at least. He didn't know enough about magic or weather patterns to come up with an alternate theory.
His hair was never going to recover from the constant damp.
All those stupid magisters and their stupid magic. You'd think they could figure out a way to keep their stupid palace floating in the sky without ruining everyone else's day. They probably had enchanted umbrellas or some such nonsense.
All the more reason for Rori to get out of the city as soon as possible. But that task was proving harder than expected.
There aren't a lot of jobs for Soporati elves on a good day. Rori couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good day.
The caravan job hadn't been good, but it was guaranteed coin and a change of scenery. Most of the other hired guards weren't too happy to work alongside an elf, though. Especially one who beat them at cards and trounced them in sparring matches and stood up for the slaves. The final straw came when Rori caught one of them cornering one of those slaves behind a wagon. The girl couldn't have been more than fifteen, and the mercenary was a head taller and twice her weight. He was bigger than Rori, too, but that didn't stop Rori from giving him a black eye.
When the caravan reached Minrathous, neither were hired back on. The bully didn't like that, either.
So now Rori had a yellowed bruise along his jaw and an empty coin purse, and he was wet and miserable and hungry, and he was considering - for the first time really considering - finding the nearest Imperial Army station and asking them to send him back to Ventus. Admit the family name he'd been hiding for years in the hope that it would still be worth something there.
But Rori didn't know where the nearest army station might be, and the city guardsman he asked laughed in his face. The Imperium didn't need elves to fight its battles.
As the sun began to sink below the skyline - well before it even grew close to the horizon - Rori's stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten anything since a bit of fried fish early that morning. On account of being flat broke. He still didn't have so much as two coppers to rub together, nor did it seem likely he'd be able to earn any without resorting to the tricks he was trying so hard to leave behind.
But it was better to steal than to starve, Dax had always said. There had to be a tavern around here where people played cards. All he needed was enough coin to buy his way in.
The people here in the markets by the docks, though, kept their purse strings tight. No easy job for pickpockets here, and competition even among the beggars. With his sword and armor in decent repair, he couldn't compete. Didn't want to, either. Rather, he wished he had enough to give to the ragged, half-starved waifs on nearly every street corner. He'd have better luck uptown. Or midtown, more likely, where his appearance wouldn't be quite as suspect.
Rori hadn't left the docks and markets in his entire week in the city, though. He didn't know the neighborhoods. Could only point himself toward the silhouette of the Archon's palace, limned by the sinking sun, and hope that somewhere between here and there he'd find a cushy working-class neighborhood where the residents were too tired to watch their backs on the walk home.
He became lost within an hour. Minrathous was a maze of cobbled streets winding around buildings from the dawn of the Imperium. Narrow lanes separating crumbling ruins from newer structures. Not a straight path in sight. And to make matters worse, it was still raining. The drizzle was light but relentless, and Rori's thin cloak was not up to the task of keeping him dry.
So now he was broke, hungry, wet, and also lost. Thoroughly miserable, he ducked into the shallow alcove of a doorway off an alley to try, in vain, to shake off the wet.
The sun continued to sink beyond the buildings, casting the streets in long, dark shadows. In other cities he'd passed through, the nicer neighborhoods sported veilfire street lamps, and he could only assume the same was true here. And wondered if they might come on before the stars began to light the sky.
There did seem to be fewer stars here, though.
It wouldn't be the first time Rori went to bed hungry if he gave up this fool's errand. Found somewhere halfway dry to curl up until the sun touched the streets again. That sounded terrible, but marginally less terrible than wandering around aimlessly in the dark. In the morning, he could ask for directions.
He found himself in an alley roofed by balconies and awnings that had more dry ground than wet. It also seemed to be between two buildings, with no main doors opening out onto it. Less likely that some night owl or early riser would trip over him or call the authorities on a vagrant elf. Even better luck, he found himself an alcove that was probably a notable architectural feature - or had been when built - that was just the right size for him to squeeze into and curl up in the corner. And curl up he did, sending a silent prayer out to anyone listening that the rain would let up so he might be able to dry out his cloak at least.
Nobody was listening, though. Or if they were, they didn't like Rori very much. Rather than letting up, the drizzle that had persisted on-and-off all day grew worse. And his alcove was not as sheltered as he'd thought.
As soon as water started to puddle atop the nearby canvas awning, it began to leak into his space. A few drops at first, then a stream.
Maybe the architectural feature was a downspout. Just his luck. But there was nothing for it. He'd have to find somewhere else.
The sounds of a fight didn't register to him at first, over the sound of rain and his complaining stomach. It grew louder as he continued down the alley, though. A shout; the sound of metal on metal; bare feet on wet stone. Rori stopped in a dry spot below an awning and contemplated turning around. He didn't need to get mixed up in whatever this was.
But he was curious.
He eased himself along the wall toward the end of the alley, where he could see now that it opened onto a wider lane between buildings. The first thing he saw, peeking cautiously around the corner, was the familiar flash of steel as a sword arced through the air. A crash as that blade met another.
In a backstreet like this, there were no veilfire streetlamps or enchanted shop signs, only the cloudy moon and stars to light the road. Even with an elf's more acute night vision, Rori had difficulty making out the figures fighting in the street. Two with swords - a whisper-shout of "go!" from one - and several others clustered in the shadows at the far side of the street. The swords flashed again as the larger group rushed from one shadowed corner to another, but Rori's eyes caught on something else: a short length of chain - manacles - hung from the belt of one of the armed fighters.
Slave catcher.
Which meant those figures huddling against the far wall; those were runaways.
Just as Rori was wondering if there was more than one bounty hunter after this lot, a muffled scream cut through the air. It distracted the man with the sword, letting that first slave catcher get in a lucky strike under his guard. And then chaos.
The runaways broke from the shadows, but not in an organized group. It took Rori a moment to understand what had happened. The slave catchers had flanked them, and if they had more than one protector, it wasn't doing any good. There were more shouts, sounds of fighting, and the metallic stench of blood began to mingle with the typical mildew and wet stone that Rori was beginning to associate with Minrathous.
Rori's heart leapt to his throat and he pulled himself back into the alley, pressing himself hard back against the wall. He should run. Go back the way he came and forget he'd seen any of this. It wasn't his business.
Then one of the runaways tripped into his alley. Bare feet slid on slick flagstone and they went down hard. As they scrambled to get up, their eyes caught Rori's - wide and unblinking - and they looked about the same age Rori had been when he first ran away from home. So when one of the slave catchers came around the corner after them, Rori moved without thinking. He threw himself off the wall and onto the man, sending both of them tumbling out of the alley and into the street.
They hit the damp flagstones hard, though the slaver harder than Rori, who landed atop him with a grunt. He took the opportunity, as his adversary lay winded, to dig his elbow into the other man's ribs before rolling away. He didn't manage to get fully to his feet before the slaver caught his breath and darted a hand out to snatch at Rori's ankle. Instincts forged in careful drills but honed in fights just like this saved him from landing flat on his face. Instead, Rori managed to twist quickly enough that his shoulder and hip took the brunt of the fall. He kicked out with his free leg and managed to catch the slaver in the face with the heel of his boot. The man cried out in pain and fury, both hands going toward his freshly bleeding nose, which gave Rori the chance to actually get his feet under him.
"You little shit!" Blood ran down from the slaver's crooked nose and onto his lips, turning his teeth-bared snarl into a gory mess that had Rori's pulse picking up. Or maybe that was just the usual adrenaline.
Rori could get a good look at his opponent now that they were both standing. A wiry man in the typical patchwork of armor worn by mercenaries. Not dissimilar from Rori's own ensemble, save for the accessories. Chains, shackles, rope. And a short sword that he now pulled from its sheath. So Rori reached for his own as well.
The slaver was quick, but clumsy and predictable. Effective against untrained, unarmed slaves, but less so against someone who'd been holding a sword nearly his whole life. It was easy enough for Rori to slap the sword away and step around a telegraphed lunge that sent his opponent overbalancing in his fury. But as he shifted his stance to aim a responding strike at the other man, his foot landed in a puddle, slipped against the slick stone beneath, and so his blade sliced along the man's ribs, parting padded armor to reveal the skin below and paint it red.
He could hear his father snapping at him for sloppiness as he grounded himself again. The slaver likewise managed to get his feet under control once more. Rather than disabling his opponent, Rori's mistake had only succeeded in making him even more furious. And that was dangerous.
His rage made the man's strikes less predictable as he flailed, swinging his sword with more strength than control. And enough power that when Rori parried a blow he felt it all the way up to his shoulder. He needed to end this quickly. Before he could find an opening to do just that, though, someone else did it for him.
The point of a sword appeared from within the slaver's chest, accompanied by a spray of blood that sent Rori leaping backwards before it could drench his only set of clothes. The slaver's eyes went wide with shock, and a trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth as he took a final gasping, gagging breath before he slid forward off the sword and collapsed to the wet ground.
If Rori had to guess, this was the man he'd first seen fighting off the slave hunters. The clash of metal on metal that had attracted Rori to the scene. His sword no longer flashed in the moonlight, black with blood as it was, but he was close enough now for Rori to make out his features. Long, dark hair pulled back into a knot at the back of his head, equally dark eyes, and a trim beard. Armor not as generic as a mercenary's, but almost intentionally nondescript. But what caught Rori's attention more was the sword itself - military issue.
The man stared at him for a moment in surprise, and then confusion. "Who the fuck are you?"
Rori's brain kicked itself into overdrive. A man with a military issue sword, holding it like he had been trained to, in purposefully blank armor, apparently helping slaves escape. Rori really shouldn't have gotten involved.
"Nobody," he answered quickly, "Just a random passerby. I didn't see anything."
The man's eyes flicked down to the sword still in Rori's hand - a cheap thing that had served him well only because he cared for it religiously - and then took in the rest of him at a glance. Rori knew he looked more like one of the slavers than this man or any of the slaves he was helping. Except for the long points of his ears.
"He saved me!" Rori was rescued from whatever attack or interrogation this man might have in store for him by one of the runaways - the one who had tripped into his alley hiding spot - rushing up to them.
Rori wondered if he should put his sword away to appear less threatening, or if he should keep it out in case this all went to shit. Before he could come to a decision, though, there was another hushed shout from across the way. "Someone might have heard that. We need to go."
With a curse, Rori's interrogator shoved his sword back into its sheath with more force than seemed necessary. His attention pulled away from Rori to take quick stock of their surroundings. Three bodies lay on the ground. All slavers from what little Rori could make out of their attire in the moonlight. A woman in similarly nondescript clothing was herding the skittish runaways toward another of the alleys that let off the wider road. "Tarquin!" she hissed, looking over his shoulder, "Come on!"
"I'm coming," the man - Tarquin - snapped back at her. "And so are you," he told Rori in a tone that brokered no argument.
It seemed like he wasn't in immediate danger of another fight, so Rori hurried to sheath his sword as well, then held out his empty hands. "I'm not a snitch. I swear."
"We'll see about that." He was fast, hand shooting out to grab Rori by the collar before he could react. Instinctually, Rori attempted to twist away, but to no avail. Tarquin's grip was strong and unrelenting. He shoved Rori ahead of himself and barked at him to move.
They followed the gaggle of runaway slaves - and, Rori presumed, those slaves' rescuers - down two more narrow alleys and then ducked through a doorway and down a dark, narrow flight of stairs. The footsteps of those before left the stone steps slick and wet. Rori almost fell more than once, held up only by Tarquin's firm grip on his shirt, though the man snapped a warning at him every time it happened.
He was dragged through narrow passages that smelled of wet earth and old meat and sewage. All lit only by a tiny bobbing mage light that provided barely enough illumination for him to see his own feet. Yet the man shoving him along did not stumble or falter once. Either elves weren't actually as much better at seeing in the dark as everyone said, or his escort knew these passages well enough to traverse in near-blackness.
Well after Rori lost track of the twists and turns, he was shoved through a doorway and into what could only be the basement of some building. The stone floor was smooth, and where the walls weren't carved from the bedrock of Minrathous they were wood paneled, which he could see because whoever had kept that tiny mage light burning on their journey underground brightened it as soon as they entered. And that was the first time anyone else seemed to notice Rori.
The door to the sewers, or wherever they'd just been, closed with a heavy thud behind them. Across the room, the runaway slaves were being ushered through another doorway by a woman. Perhaps the same woman who had hurried them along after the slave hunters had been dealt with. But when she laid eyes on Rori and realized that he was neither a slave nor one of their group, she startled and asked, "Who's this?"
"Stray I found on the way," Tarquin replied, and yanked Rori in the opposite direction from where the slaves were going, toward the far side of the room.
Rori stumbled over his own feet. "I was helping," he reminded. "I thought you were the good guys!" He hadn't been disarmed, which was a good sign, but still his heart was thundering in anxiety.
His protest fell on deaf ears, but at least Tarquin finally relinquished his iron grip on Rori's collar, even if just to shove him toward a couple of chairs. Moments later, a towel - or a bit of cloth that had aspirations of becoming a towel - was thrown at his head. Not one to turn down charity, Rori accepted the peace offering for what it was and set about attempting to wring some of the water from his hair without it turning into a frizzy mess.
By the time he'd managed to stop dripping on the floor, Tarquin was gone. Rori only passively heard the order to "wait here" and the slamming of a door while he toweled himself off. When he tried the door the slaves had been ushered through it was locked, and Rori didn't want to try his luck in the sewers, so he hung his sodden cloak over the back of one rickety chair and waited in the other for whatever interrogation was sure to come.
He didn't have to wait long, though he was starting to get bored when at last he heard the door open once more.
It was Tarquin again, flanked by another man who hovered by the door like a tavern bouncer. Rori leapt to his feet, and it was, ironically, only the fact he’d been left with his sword that kept him from drawing it. Still, he was wary. And it seemed his kidnapper was, too.
Tarquin stopped halfway across the room, hand resting with a casual ease on the hilt of his own blade. “Right,” he scowled, “You got a name?”
His first instinct was to lie. But if this man and his accomplices were going to kill him in cold blood, they would have done so already. If he wanted to ensure Rori was trustworthy enough to let go, lying wouldn’t help his cause. Still, he didn’t need to tell the whole truth. “Rori.”
The name didn’t seem to spark any recognition. Good. “Tarquin,” the man introduced himself, though Rori had figured that much out by now, and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder, “That’s Hector.”
“He here to supervise the interrogation?”
Somehow, Tarquin’s scowl deepened. “Something like that. Want to tell me what you were doing in that alley tonight?”
A fair question, but something else caught Rori’s attention. Maybe it was because he'd finally heard the man string more than five words together, or maybe because, despite his general confusion and discomfort, the adrenaline was wearing off, but suddenly Rori recognized the accent. Why it was so familiar. "You're from Ventus," he blurted. It wasn't the posh accent that had been trained into Rori's words, either, but the rough commoner's tongue. Like he'd heard in the markets growing up. That he hadn't heard more than a handful of people speak in years. "Me too."
The look he received in response to this statement was unmoved. "Good place to be from these days," he said. "Answer the question."
No love lost for their ruined hometown, then. Well, it had been worth a try. "I was trying to find somewhere dry to sleep."
Somehow, that was what cracked this man's stone-hard expression. "Yeah, good luck with that this time of year," he scoffed. "Must be new in town, then." Rori shrugged to avoid confirming the assumption, but that seemed answer enough. “So here’s the situation. Lot of people put a lot of work into building his operation, and I’m not about to let it fall apart because of some random kid who poked his nose where he shouldn’t.”
“I said I’m no snitch,” Rori defended. From the way he spoke, it sounded like this ‘operation’ was bigger than one group of runaways.
“And I believe that you believe that about yourself,” Tarquin allowed. "I'd love to believe it about you, too, but I don't know you." He glanced at the chair currently occupied by Rori's wet cloak and the scowl returned. He shifted his weight onto one leg. "So you were in the wrong place at the wrong time," he continued, "That's fair. Why get involved, though?"
"Was I supposed to just watch that kid get murdered in front of me?"
He nodded like one of Rori's tutors when he did well on a test. "Noticed the bruise," he gestured toward Rori's face, "You get in a lot of fights?"
His hand came up to prod at the fading bruise, which only hurt now when he really pressed on it and probably hadn't been visible outside. Maybe it would disappear before the bruises from tonight started to show. "Mostly when I'm paid for it," he tried to joke.
"Somehow, I think if you'd gotten paid for that one you wouldn't be sleeping on the streets," Tarquin drawled. Too perceptive, this man. Rori could feel him putting together pieces, drawing up a picture of Rori's circumstances based on practically nothing. "Tell me about it. Maybe I'll like you better afterward."
Again Rori thought about lying. Fabricating some tale about bandits or a heroic rescue. Something more exciting than the truth. But again, the truth might get him farther here. "Was working escort for this merchant," he started, begrudging. "One of the other mercs on the job, he kept harassing the slaves. And me," he added, in case that won him any sympathy. "But there was this one girl in particular he wouldn't leave alone. I caught him trying to... you know, have his way." And it still made him angry just remembering. "So no, I didn't get paid for that one. But neither did he, so it was worth it."
Tarquin let out a low whistle when Rori finished his tale. "Regular night in shining armor, you are," he said. "What d'you think, Hector?" he called over his shoulder to the man looming by the door, "He telling the truth?" But Hector only shrugged. Rori was a good liar when he wanted to be, but he would be pissed if these two didn't believe him the one time he was telling the truth. "Alright, last question. Maybe." Tarquin turned back toward him. "If I like your answer. Where's an elf kid from Ventus learn how to hold a sword like a soldier? From one of your merc pals?"
Of course he'd recognized that. This man, with his military issue sword, standing at parade ready during a questioning like this was just another Tuesday night. He was probably a retired soldier himself. Or maybe still one. City guard or something. Rori could just say yes, but if Tarquin recognized his form, he probably recognized it wasn't something that could be picked up on the road. "From my father." Again, it seemed safest to tell the truth and omit all those unimportant details. And hope that was a good enough answer to stop further questions.
But now Tarquin's frown turned from suspicious to curious. He eyed Rori up and down - his dirty collection of mismatched armor, his cheap sword - but caught on the scar on his neck, typical. And as Rori watched, the pieces - what very few of them he had revealed - clicked into place.
"You the fucking Mercar kid?"
"What?"
His shock must have given away the truth. Shock, not confusion. Enough confirmation to make Tarquin emit a bark of incredulous laughter. "Maker's arse. You serious?"
When the moment of shock passed, confusion followed in its wake. "How do you even know about that?" He knew his adoption caused a bit of a stir, but he had never thought he'd be recognizable outside of his father's small circle of officers and their families. Certainly not enough for some random soldier to put the pieces together based on practically nothing on the other side of the country years after Rori abandoned the family name.
"You kidding?" A grin still stretched across Tarquin's face as he fought to contain a snigger. "I was stuck in basic training, and 'Mercar's stray' was all anyone talked about for weeks. Was annoying as shit." Pieces began to click together in Rori's head now, too. This wasn't some random soldier. Tarquin might be from one of that small circle of families. "Had to hear everyone bitch about it when your dad got promoted up to Legatus, too."
Yes, Rori had been old enough by then to understand that the promotion had been controversial. In part due to him. He didn't like it then, and he didn't like it now.
And he'd worked so hard to distance himself from that name. "Is it a problem?"
At last, Tarquin got his amusement under control. The smile faded to a mere smirk, but all the serious ill humor that had defined his expression at the start was gone now. "Doesn't have to be," he shrugged. "Would've figured you to be back east with daddy. Taking back Ventus for the glory of Tevinter or whatever."
"Do I look like I care about the glory of Tevinter?" Rori deadpanned.
Another bark of laughter. "No, I suppose you don't. Suppose that's why you ended up here with me."
Which brought them right back around to the original issue. But maybe, in this one instance, acknowledging his upbringing might be more of a boon than a curse. It seemed to amuse Tarquin at the very least.
"Let's make a deal then, Mercar," Tarquin offered. Rori only barely managed not to cringe at the sound of the name. "We could use someone with your skills, if you're amenable to our cause."
"Depends on the cause, I guess," Rori admitted. "And what I get out of it."
"Oh, he's gone full merc. Bet daddy hates that." Tarquin muttered, continued amusement clear in his voice. "Can't pay you, as such. Hard enough for our rich, fancy allies to launder us enough money to function. I can introduce you to someone who'll talk your ear off about purpose and morality and quote the Chant if you like. Or I can just tell you we're doing what we can to help the poor schmucks like us that the Magisterium couldn't give two shits about. Maybe give the fat cats some grief in the process. Beats bleeding out on the beaches, if you ask me."
It was exactly the sort of thing he’d railed at his father about wanting. The sort of thing he’d given up on after watching three cities collapse under the weight of the Antaam. The childish ideals that had kept him going, but that he’d been ready to give up on just hours before.
Something worth doing not because of the money or honor or duty, but because it mattered. Something that made a difference.
Something better than bleeding out on the beaches.
Swallowing down the sudden thickness in his throat, Rori schooled his face into the mask of boredom usually reserved for cheating at cards. “If it gets me a roof over my head, I suppose I can give it a shot.”
And that was how Rori joined a new gang.
Or an underground resistance movement. Which, as far as Rori could tell over the next few days, was just a more well-funded and politically motivated kind of gang.